


The good word

by Kalincka



Category: Super Science Friends (Cartoon)
Genre: And Freud agrees, Basically they hate-speak to each other and it's great, Gen, I AM DOING MY BEST, In french, Jung is so ANGRY, Jung is still asleep in Big Ben and the team must wake him up, Jung realizes he is fucked up, Loss of Powers, M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, Post-Freudian Sleep, Prompt Fic, Tesla has no fucking clue of what is happening, also there's some Freud & Tapputi frienship because those two are an absolute brotp, and by "the team" I mean Freud, and i love him, and i'm posting this for the june ssf month event, because i'm still struggling with my english, kinda pre-relationship if you squint, so hello ssf fandom?, so i'm making it up!, translation!!!, yeah i'm the chick who wrote the first ssf fic in the ao3 archive, yes after a month of work i finally translated this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-17 15:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14835201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalincka/pseuds/Kalincka
Summary: You ever wonder what's worse than being woken up by your worst ennemy? Being woken up by your worst ennemy, and being unable to take him down.





	The good word

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Le bon mot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14590191) by [Kalincka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalincka/pseuds/Kalincka). 



> So! Hello ssf fandom! As I said in the tags, I already wrote about ssf in french (as you can see... I'm alone and I'm used to it), but I wanted to try and give it a shot in english. Please if you notice any kind of spelling mistake, do tell me!
> 
> This translation is dedicated to the ssf June month. I know it was technically written before (in another language, but still) and it's not really an "original" work, but hey, it fits the theme. Day 7 - Carl Jung. Enjoy!

“So. Can we all agree to forget that night and act as if nothing had happened?”

“Actually, I have some questions-”

“Perfect! Now everyone goes back to their job and SHUT IT.”

For good measure, Churchill slammed his fist on the table, scattering the smartest (ie, Curie and Darwin) to other rooms and leaving a confused Tesla leaning on the kitchen table. Einstein, not very convinced, asked in a mistrustful voice:

“What about him?”

His finger pointed fatally to the problem that his mentor had wanted to ignore.

Carl Jung, serenely asleep (“completely smashed” according to Tapputi) on one of the kitchen’s chairs, was still plugged in to Z3 without any changes. Freud, sitting next to him, squinted to see how the helmet worked on his head, and Z3 was still in a computer-coma that was enough to make him forget his dubious use.

Churchill passed two pinched fingers on his lips:

“We forget everything.”

“He tried to kill me!” Einstein protested, spreading his arms scandalously.

“Everything.”

“But-”

“I SAID EVERYTHING.”

Freud waved his hand at them, looking earnestly intrigued by the cable he’d grabbed:

“You can go away, I'll handle it.”

“Perfect! Albert, you have homework to do.”

“But I don’t have any-”

Before he could even finish, Churchill grabbed his wrist with an iron hand, dragging Einstein like the child he still was, and slammed the door behind them.

“… Will someone explain to me what is going on?!” Tesla begged while raising his hands to the sky.

Tapputi shrugged as if the question was concerning a minor detail of her life. She’d surely have put an arm around Tesla's shoulders, had they not sparkled as soon as she drew a hand to him.

“Hey. I'll explain it to you later if you want, insomniac.” She did something akin to, surely, a wink. “In _private_ …”

An uncontrolled flash broke the kitchen table in half.

Tapputi found herself seated in equilibrium on a half-broken chair, and Tesla, surprised by what he’d just done, fell to the ground; the black floor, littered with broken wood, displayed a single zebra strip. Insensitive to the damage, Freud continued his observation of the helmet.

“I-I have to go!” exclaimed Tesla, quickly disappearing through the door.

“Of course”, the chemist muttered, folding her arms. She glanced at Freud, too absorbed by the _Dream Intruder 2000_ to pay attention to anything.

“Hey, psychiatrogenius. Need something?”

“No, no”, muttered Freud while curiously unplugging a cable (which did nothing to improve the condition of their... new roommate? Prisoner? Prisoner was a good word.)

“Okay, well. You know where to find me.”

“In the cellar.”

“Right you are.”

For the fourth time, the door slammed and left a strange silence in the kitchen.

It had been several minutes now, rummaging through the wires, buttons and lights and understanding nothing while doing so. The machine was giving him a headache, and Freud was even more grateful to know that Z3 was not coming out of his sleep so soon, avoiding his screams about the violation of his programs.

It had been admittedly funny to let Jung hover like an utter fool for the rest of the night, to film him when he was laughing stupidly on his chair and drooling (but dreaming of what?). But the sunrise had been an end to his diversion. Churchill had called them all for an emergency meeting, and now... Now, Freud had to wake him up.

The question was _how_. Seriously, how to understand such a helmet? How to get Jung out of the dream world? Was he locked in there forever? Maybe he’d make a good exhibit for his office. “Non-repressed neuroses”, right next to his couch.

Freud unplugged the last cable, having eliminated all other manipulations. The snoring stopped right after.

_Ha!_

Holding his breath, he waited. Awakening was not very far...

Freud counted for a long time. By the end of the tenth second, nothing had changed.

“Why won’t he wake up?” he mumbled, narrowing his eyes. He’d touched everything! (Pun not intended.) Buttons, wires, numeric keypad, he’d pressed everything until he’d got a result. Nothing. The only thing he hadn’t moved was the antenna, still sitting on top of Big Ben; but it would have been foolish to move it, it was only a way to gather the dreams of others, of London - not to switch off the helmet.

Still on the lookout, Freud approached slowly. Jung didn’t really seem to wake up. He was still drooling on himself, which was funny, and he still had that scribble on his forehead, which was even funnier considering it was Freud’s idea. But he wasn’t waking up.

Then Freud stuck a finger in his cheek.

Nothing.

His alter-ego (oh, the irony of this term) just grumbled in his sleep, not in the least affected. Freud pulled at his mouth. No reaction. When Freud pushed his right nostril, Jung’s whole head tilted to the left under the pressure. Annoyed, Freud slapped his forehead.

He didn’t see the punch coming.

The attack was brutal and ruthless, and took Freud back several steps as he put a hand to his face in shock. Letting out a plaintive “ouch!”, he briefly became aware of a metallic sound violently striking the ground, as if thrown on the ground with rage; and when Freud raised his head, just in time to see and dodge another blow, he realized that Jung was now awake.

And pissed off.

“You!” Jung growled with unparalleled harshness.

If Freud had the intelligence to bend down so he could avoid the hand that was dying to tear his face apart, he didn’t have the one to calm his opponent.

“Looks like somebody woke up the wrong side of the bed,” he said with the same anger.

“I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to kill that disgusting troop of fools around you, and then I'll kill that stupid kid-”

“What about: you don’t?”

Freud leaped back to dodge a new fist, grabbing a chair to use it as a shield. Jung chuckled, laughing at the idea that he could get away like that, before putting two fingers to his temple in a familiar gesture.

“Pathetic! My powers will crush you and I will throw your lifeless body into a BIN!”

For a moment, Freud thought that a prolonged use of the machine must surely had side effects, for his former student was in a completely unstable state: his breakdown was indeed well increased. In addition to making Jung totally hysterical, who knew if this amplification acted the same way with his powers?

Jung tried to launch a mental attack.

Tried.

Because if a Shadow seemed to rush on Freud as soon as it was summoned, it fainted as soon as it touched the chair that served him as a shield.

“… What?” Jung paused, displaying a frankly puzzled expression.

He tried again. And again, a Shadow washed up on the chair and disintegrated like foam.

Freud smiled.

“It... seems like your powers aren’t working,” he remarked in a deliberately mocking tone.

“Nonsense!” Immediately, Jung protested, stomping his foot on the ground. Another attempt. Another failure, and worse: the attack dissolved before it even touched anything, too tired to persist. Freud lowered his chair, feeling perfectly safe now. Jung's head was worth its weight in gold.

“It's impossible!” exclaimed the latter, frowning.

“Ha, Jung. Looks like you overestimate your abilities.”

“You idiot! I can still strangle you with my bare hands!”

As he was going to jump on him again, the psychiatrist merely sketched an avenging smile, carrying two fingers to his temple:

“And I can still give you a taste of how bad you've been beaten last night, hmm?”

“If I can’t use my powers, I don’t see why _you_ could.”

“Maybe because _I_ didn’t have prolonged exposure to your machine.”

There was a silence. And slowly, very slowly, Freud saw Jung’s expression change, moving to a totally and deeply speechless face, dumbfounded by a truth he was only beginning to understand. Confused, his alter-ego (irony still there) looked at his own hands, then Freud, then Z3 who was beeping in its waking state, then Freud again, his hands, his hands, him-

“I'm going to throw up if you keep going,” said Freud aloud.

“That's impossible! For how long…?!” Jung exclaimed in a scandalized tone (and, because Freud was used to discerning the slightest change in the voice of people who confided in him: slightly terrified).

Freud took pleasure in adjusting his glasses with a devilish smile. “Looks like you're stuck here.”

“Never!”

Their prisoner (really, it was a good word) seized a chair to defend himself in a desperate attempt. Freud would have said the tables had turned, or in their case, chairs, but he merely put a finger to the side of his forehead, looking more than triumphant:

“I do not advise you to do that.”

“I’m not staying here!”

“Really?”

Before Jung could even answer, Freud let go of a simple attack. A very small sexual thought, next to nothing, which floated quietly to its target.

“STOP THAT!” Jung walked backward to the wall, his chair still brandished at the pale pink form that was going straight on him.

“But you don’t look like you want to cooperate.”

“I’M GOING TO-”

Jung didn’t have time to finish his sentence: inevitably, the pink thought engulfed him and paralyzed him for a few moments during which he widened his eyes, stunned. When Jung was released from the grip, a guilty moan flew into the air, and Freud crossed his arms, satisfied.

And a few seconds later, Jung threw his chair at Freud’s face, shivering like a mess.

“I HATE YOU!”

Freud bent down quickly, and the chair broke violently against the door, splitting into pieces on the floor. Jung, too carried away by anger (and perhaps by something else, Freud thought slyly), didn’t seem to realize that it was a rather unwise offensive, choosing to scream and shiver and blush at an impressive degree. He’d just lost his one and only physical shield: indeed, all the furniture in the room had either been shattered during their fight, or struck by thunder.

“Same for me,” Freud said in a friendly tone, not very disturbed by the mess in the kitchen.

“You’ve always been a filthy, and pitiful man!”

“You want more of it?” Freud raised an eyebrow, falsely intrigued.

Jung chose to stay silent. Judicious choice, if judging by his position, his dubiously lack of breath and his pride already well damaged. After a while, he finally grumbled something that Freud did not hear entirely.

“What was that?” he asked calmly.

No answers. Freud closed his eyes with a sigh, pretending to be pained:

“You’re really forcing my hand, you know.”

Jung spoke the same way he would have been forced to swallow a porcupine.

“… That's _humiliating_.”

“You're not really giving me a choice.”

“I should not be surprised to see how you lower yourself to such a behavior, Sigmund”, coldly stated his former student. “And yet you still get to be more despicable every day that passes.”

Jung crossed his arms in a defensive position, adjusting his glasses before doing so. Freud smiled, the insult having no effect on himself given the situation of superiority he was in.

“Reduced so soon to insults? Sad to see how much you lack _experience_.”

“Psychiatrist of low floor.”

“Pathetic enemy.”

“Narcissistic pervert.”

“Powerless egocentric.”

Both stared stonily at each other without another word.

Suddenly, the door opened. Tesla appeared in the frame, quite upset:

“Could you please make less noise to wake up somebod-oh.”

He then saw Jung's presence, still half-shaking in one of the corner of the room, as well as the hate in his eyes. Intrigued, Tesla turned his head to Freud, who casually took out a cigar from his costume with unmatched pride:

“You can go and tell Churchill that we have a new prisoner.”

Or roommate. That was a good word, too.


End file.
